


Paint By Numbers

by sawbones



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Art appreciation, Awkward first dates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sawbones/pseuds/sawbones
Summary: Art galleries make excellent first dates. Well, usually.





	Paint By Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for the Siege the Valentine's event over at [dualrainbow](https://dualrainbow.tumblr.com/). They run multiple awesome fan events throughout the year so check 'em out!

Gustave checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes: it was nearly quarter past two, and he was starting to worry. He had suggested they met at two though the exhibition opened at noon, hoping the crowd had thinned a little; it closed at four and he was worried they would be pressed to see it all, especially if they were any later. The gallery probably wasn’t  _that_  big, but he didn’t want them to feel rushed - he’d spent a small fortune on their tickets, but more importantly had agonised for weeks over the perfect place for their first date.

Gustave fixed the cuff of his sweater with a small smile, ignoring the urge to check his watch again. Maybe it wasn’t just the time that was making him nervous, but he supposed he couldn’t blame himself. It had been years since he’d been on a real, actual date; work made it difficult to meet new people, and the ones he did meet were usually shooting at him.

A car pulled up to the curb behind him and jolted him from his fretting, and he turned just in time to see Timur get out and raise a hand in sheepish greeting. He had shaved his ridiculous chin scruff, Gustave realised. It was a good look.

Then he noticed the suit.

“Sorry I’m late,” Timur said as he approached, “I, uh…couldn’t find anything to wear.”

It was quite possibly the most  _ugly_  suit Gustave had seen in his life: a polyester blend in a uniquely awful shade of not-quite powder blue, in a cut that would have been old fashioned in the nineties. It was too big for him just about everywhere, from the sleeves to the sagging padded shoulders, topped off with a wide faux-silk tie that would have looked more at home on a geography teacher. Once the shock had subsided, Gustave narrowed his eyes. He would recognise that monstrosity anywhere.

“Is that Alexsandr’s suit?” he asked, not sure whether to be amused or concerned and settling for a mixture of both.

He didn’t even need to ask. He’d seen it at every court appearance and funeral and formal meeting they’d ever been to in the entire time Gustave had been with Rainbow. It was probably older than Timur was.

“Is it that bad?”

It was. It looked even worse on him than it did on Alexandr. Gustave couldn’t quite bring himself to say that out loud but his hesitation was apparently an answer in its own right, and Timur seemed as though he was about to shrivel in embarrassment. He couldn’t blame him; it had been kind of a short-notice arrangement.

“Here,” Gustave said, reaching for his tie, “Let me.”

He slipped the tie off, rolled it up, and put it in the jacket pocket. He then coaxed him out of the jacket altogether, which Timur tossed in the back seat of the car once he got the hint. Gustave helped him to fold his sleeves to the elbow, and after a moment’s consideration, opened the top two buttons of his shirt too. Oh yes,  _much_  better.

“There we go,” he said, fixing his collar for an excuse to get a little closer, “Even more handsome than usual.”

Timur had relaxed a little under Gustave’s careful preening, though his cheeks were still a warm pink. He didn’t offer his arm as they began to walk, but Gustave took it anyway - he hadn’t told Timur where they were going, wanting it to be a surprise, so it was up to him to lead the way.

–

The gallery itself wasn’t actually that far, but it was well hidden, tucked down a twisting cobbled side-street with no obvious signage outside. They followed a small gaggle of people through the glass double doors into a brightly lit lobby where a sour-faced assistant was checking tickets at the front desk. The building had been an old textile factory at one point, or so he had read; the walls were the original brick and the ceilings were higher than most houses.

“An art gallery?” Timur guessed as they waited in line.

Gustave smiled and leaned closer to whisper in his ear, “I don’t want to ruin the surprise but a little bird told me they’re exhibiting an original Matisse this weekend.”

He couldn’t hide his smile as he felt Timur tense at his side, even when the assistant shot him a curious look as she took his tickets and directed them where to go. It was busy inside the gallery itself, busier than Gustave had expected; apparently everyone else had the same idea of leaving it a little later. People milled around the maze of white walls built just for the exhibition, everyone well dressed and smelling like money. Gustave kept his hold on Timur’s arm and led him into the crowd.

“Where to first?” he asked.

Timur looked around and pointed in what Gustave assumed was a random direction, “Let’s start here.”

It seemed as good a place as any, the first alcove with an installation on each of its three walls and a small blurb about each one. Gustave snagged a glass of champagne from a waiter passing by on the way. Timur tried to do the same and nearly knocked the tray out of the man’s hand, earning him a withering look.

They sipped as they strolled, not saying much and simply appreciating the pieces on show. The champagne was warm but the art was beautiful enough to make up for it, a collection based on a uniting theme of bright, engaging colours rather than a specific school or artist. Gustave had picked it for that exact reason, since Timur’s art would have fit right in with the rest - it was his way of showing appreciation, he supposed.

Timur seemed distracted.

“Everything alright?” Gustave asked as they slipped out of another alcove, setting his empty glass on a table of brochures.

“Yeah, just– feeling a little underdressed is all.”

He cut a side-long glance to a petite woman standing in front of them, making polite conversation with a small gaggle of admirers. She was wearing an elegant cream dress, which while not at all ostentatious, was perfectly tailored to every curve in a way that implied it probably cost more than Gustave made in a month. Maybe two. She didn’t look out of place in that kind of crowd either.

Before Gustave could reassure him that he was, in fact, almost unbearably gorgeous regardless of what he was wearing, the woman glanced over her shoulder and caught them looking.

“Is everything alright, gentlemen?” she asked. She had a pleasant lilting accent and smiled without showing teeth.

“Fine, thanks,” Gustave said, perhaps a little quickly, “It’s a beautiful collection, don’t you think?”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, turning and offered a slender hand in greeting, “Jacinda de Costa, I’m the curator here.”

There was the usual round of breezy introductions and pleasantries that followed such a chance meeting, though Gustave couldn’t help but notice Timur didn’t lean down to meet Jacinda’s air-kisses like he did. He looked even more uncomfortable than before, which was almost impressive.

“So tell me, are you involved in the scene at all?” Jacinda gestured the the surround gallery, “I don’t recall seeing you here before, and I’m sure I’d remember such handsome faces.”

“We’re new in town.” Gustave said.

Not the whole truth, but not entirely a lie. Leave was a rare commodity, and it wasn’t often that any of the operators got time off to simply go out and do the things normal people did - it was one of the reasons why he’d been so looking forward to taking Timur out, aside from the obvious. He desperately wanted it to go well, he didn’t know when they’d be able to do it again.

“Oh? And what is it that brings you to the area?”

“Work. I’m a doctor.”

“Oh, a man of science! So few and far between around these parts, darling,” Jacinda said with a fey laugh. She turned her attention to Timur, her eyes flicking over where Gustave still had his hand on his arm, “And what about your silent…companion? What does he do?”

Gustave looked to Timur, expecting to answer the question himself, but he simply looked back.

“He’s an artist, actually,” he said.

By the way Jacinda’s face lit up and Timur’s fell, Gustave knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say.

“An artist?” she said, practically pouncing on him, “Oh do let me guess - sculpture? You’ve got the hands for it.”

“Painting.” Timur said with some reluctance.

“Painting! Of course, darling, of course, I can see it now. Very moody. Tell me, would I know your agent?”

Timur shifted on the spot, “Don’t have one.”

Jacinda didn’t miss a beat, “A collective then? Very du jour.”

“Just me.”

“Bold in this climate but I admire that in a man,” Jacinda said, “And where did you say you debuted?”

“I didn’t. I haven’t, actually, it’s just…something I do…for fun?”

Jacinda’s interest visibly waned with each word, and if the ground could have opened up and swallowed them then, Gustave was quite sure Timur would have been grateful. She gave him an appraising once over, as though only seeing him for the first time, and appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed with what she saw.

“Well,” she said with a practiced smile, “Nothing wrong with hobbyists, I suppose. Now if you gentlemen would excuse me…”

She graciously dipped out from their conversation to go find some more worthwhile guests to network with, apparently, leaving Timur to stew in his embarrassment. For a person so small, she definitely knew how to make someone feel two inches tall with just a few words.

“What does she know, she’s never seen your work,” Gustave said, “There’s not a single piece in here I’d rather hanging on my office wall than the one you gave me.”

Timur’s smile was small, but genuine. He probably didn’t believe what Gustave said, but he really did mean it. A few years prior when he’d first shown interest in Timur’s hobby, he’d gifted him a small piece for his birthday. It was a landscape, more or less, an abstract water scene in stunning blues and shores of yellow shards; it had immediately taken pride of place in Gustave’s office on the base, hanging above his desk were he could see it.

“Come on,” he said, sliding his hand to the small of Timur’s back to usher him along, “I believe I promised you a Matisse.”

–

It was beautiful, a riot of colour cutting across a canvas so much bigger than Gustave had expected. It had taken some careful jostling to get to the front of the appreciative crowd, but it was worth it to see it up close and uninterrupted.

“It’s a self-portrait, you know,” Timur said. It was the first thing he had said in a while, or at least since reaching the painting. He toyed with the velvet rope stopping them from getting any closer, and smiled up at the piece with a serene expression Gustave couldn’t quite place. It was lovely to look at; lovelier perhaps than any Matisse.

“Which one is he?”

While Gustave appreciated art, he was a little ignorant of the history of it. He could have easily guessed which one was meant to represent the painter, but he wanted Timur to keep talking. He knew Matisse was one of his favourite painters, and definitely a clear influence on his work.

“The black figure in the middle,” Timur said, gesturing to the somewhat human shape holding some kind of instrument, “Matisse was dying at this point. He couldn’t paint anymore, so instead he cut out shapes in brightly coloured paper and had his assistants arrange them on the canvas. This would be his last self-portrait, and I think he knew it. It shows him alongside the greatest inspirations of his life.”

“Music and women?” Gustave teased.

“And a few other things.”

Timur smiled and slid his hand along the velvet rope to brush his fingers over Gustave’s, and in that bright, sparking moment he was sure bringing him to the gallery had been the perfect choice. That moment was as fragile as it was lovely though, and distressingly short-lived as another couple elbowed in beside them, forcing them to shuffle along a little.

“Couldn’t they have scared up any of his older works?” one of the men sneered, “God, this looks like my toddler made it at nursery.”

“Gouaches découpés? More like  _gauche_ ,” said the second man, “Honestly those colours are a nightmare.”

They tittered together, and Gustave watched the smile slide off of Timur’s face.

“Unpopular opinion, but Fauvism ruined him. I mean compare the likes of  _Carmelita_  or _La Liseuse_  to this. Completely different level.”

“He should have packed it up years before this cut-out shit. You can’t be an artists if you can’t even hold a paintbrush, that much made itself obvious.”

Gustave grabbed Timur’s hand before he could turn around and confront the jackasses, pulling him away and back through the crowd - better to leave than get kicked out, even if he didn’t intend to return any time soon. He kept going until they were out in the street and half-way back to the car already.

“Look, Timur, I’m sorry–” he began, but Timur stopped in his tracks, tugging Gustave to a stand-still with him.

“Don’t. You have nothing to say sorry for,” he said, “You put a lot of thought into this, and…I love that you love my art. I love that you listen, and you want to get involved in it. That matters more to me than whatever was in there. If anything, I should be the one saying sorry for being the way I am and ruining it.”

Gustave felt twisted between a flush of warmth in his gut and a jolt of anger up his spine, “If I don’t have anything to apologise for, then you definitely don’t either. You didn’t ruin anything, and for the record, I happen to like the way you are. It’s kind of why I’m here.”

Timur looked like he wanted to say something, or maybe run away, it was hard to tell. What he opted for instead was to pull Gustave into a slightly awkward but earnest embrace, squeezing until they both laughed.

“As far as first dates go, this isn’t the worst I’ve been on,” Timur reassured him as they pulled apart, which only made Gustave laugh harder.

“The bar was  _that_  low and I still tripped over it,” Gustave said as they began walking again, slipping his hand into Timur’s again. “How about this: forget about all this, and the assholes back there. Hit reset. We can pretend I invited you round for dinner and a movie instead. Quiet night in, no curators, no critics. Just us.”

“ _Are_  you inviting me round for dinner and a movie?”

“How does Casablanca and Chinese takeout sound?”

“Honestly? Like heaven.”

It was like a weight had lifted off his shoulders, the fear of letting Timur down after dancing around each other for so long melting away. Gustave thought forty was a little old for butterflies, and yet…

“You know, I thought I liked artists, but I’m starting to think it’s maybe just one artist in particular.”


End file.
